


Beholder

by kittenofdoomage



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Body Dysmorphic Disorder, F/M, Fluff, Light Smut, Reader Insert, Romance, injury to reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-18
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-10-07 09:13:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10357080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittenofdoomage/pseuds/kittenofdoomage
Summary: The reader suffers from body dysmorphia, and gets hurt on a hunt. This fic is actually inspired by a request I received on anon, and by my boyfriend, who insists I don’t see myself the way he sees me, and calls me a silly fuck when I say I’m fat. He does love me, really!





	

 

Trailing after the Winchesters had become a habit, and the boys never had a problem with going up ahead on a hunt. They knew they had the upper hand, and about a thousand feet of height on you, so you didn’t protest, even if it meant you often missed out on the big kills. You still got your licks in, which was all that mattered.

This hunt, however, had turned into a clusterfuck. On the one hand, half the pack of werewolves were dead. On the other, three of them currently had you cornered against a wall, and neither Dean nor Sam were in sight.

“Looks like dinner to me,” one wolf leered, snarling and licking his oversized and disgusting jaws. The smell of their breath made you want to heave, and you hoped to god they’d at least kill you quick before you vomited in disgust.

The wolf in the middle went to lunge at you, just as a shotgun sounded, and he fell to the filthy floor, gore splattering up your front as you went. The stench of blood curled your stomach, and you fought down bile as the monster to your left went for you, the other turning to see where the killing blow to his friend had come from. Dean burst into the room, shotgun aimed as he went for the next kill.

You toppled to the floor with the werewolf on top, his snapping jaws inches from your throat, and his claws tearing into your arms. A screech left your throat as the pain surged through you, inspiring adrenaline to pump into your bloodstream. Bringing your knee up, you managed to catch your assailant in the crown jewels, and he yipped in agony, rolling off of you, but not before his sharp claws dragged across your stomach, ripping the skin.

“Y/N!” Sam’s voice was barely audible over your yell of anguish, and you curled in on yourself, clutching your stomach. It wasn’t a fatal wound, but blood was staining your ruined shirt already, and you sobbed at your own failure.

Sometimes you wondered why the hell they kept you around.

The sounds of a scuffle and another shotgun round went unheard as you tried to protect yourself from a danger that was no longer prominent. After a few moments passed, and the last werewolf growled his last breath, you relaxed, but didn’t uncurl. Strong hands landed on your shoulder and hip, coaxing you onto your back.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Dean whispered, not waiting for your permission as he hoisted you into his arms. Realisation of his intention to carry you to the car made you kicked out, and he hesitantly released you to your wobbly feet. “You’re hurt, Y/N.”

“I can walk,” you insisted, pushing him away. You wanted to say that you weighed too much for him to carry, that having his hands on your body made you want to run away - he’d feel the rolls and bulges of your form and think you disgusting, and you couldn’t bare to have him look at you like everyone else did.

You knew what you were. That was why you lived in thick, oversized shirts and baggy jeans. That was why you hung back on cases that involved bars, or dives, and kept to the shadows, not wanting to bring the Winchesters down.

God knew, you already felt like you did that anyway.

Dean looked a little hurt, but he held up his hands and allowed you to limp towards the door. You were hunched over, and passed Sam without so much as a glance, wishing that the werewolf had gutted you. It would have been a lot easier than stitching up your own stomach like you were going to have to do.

Neither Winchester spoke to you as you headed back to the car, and you climbed into the back seat to wait for them as they joined you. Dean drove, and Sam took his usual spot in the front, sparing you a concerned glance before he looked back to Dean with an expression you couldn’t place. Dean simply shrugged and started the Impala, pulling away from the warehouse and back onto the main road.

Once back at the motel, you got out of the car and headed for the single room you’d booked to yourself. Everything hurt like a sonofabitch, and you had to hold back tears until your door was closed, hoping the boys didn’t see how much pain you were really in. As soon as you were alone, the tears erupted like goddamn Vesuvius, and you got into the bathroom as quickly as you could, removing your hoodie and ditching it to the floor.

You were a mess. Your right arm was scraped and bruised, with nothing more that superficial wounds. The left arm had taken a little more battering, and one deep gash ran from your shoulder tip down to the inside of your elbow, but it didn’t look like it would need stitching. Gingerly, you lifted up the blood soaked Fleetwood Mac shirt, and more tears accompanied the pain of the material sticking to your wounds.

There were three long gashes across your stomach, the longest reaching from hip to hip. There was no way you’d get away with no scars on this occasion, and your bottom lip wobbled as you saw fresh blood seeping from the wound. It had to be cleaned and dressed, which was no easy feat on your own. But you couldn’t ask anyone else; hospitals were not an option and having anyone else see your flabby stomach and stretch marks, lopsided boobs and blemished skin? You’d rather be pushing your own intestines back in.

Slowly, you pulled the shirt upwards, intending on removing it, just as someone knocked at the door to your room. Expecting it to be room service, you dropped the shirt again, leaning around the bathroom door with a wince.

“Go away!” you yelled, only to hear an amused chuckle on the other side. Stepping into the living room, you frowned, seeing the shadows move under the door.

“I’m not going anywhere, Y/N,” Dean responded, and you felt a chill up your spine. You wiped furiously at your eyes, tiptoeing to the door, making sure the chain was on. “Open the door, sweetheart.”

You reached up, opening the door the small amount the chain would allow. “What do you want, Dean?”

He smiled brightly at you, and you wished you could savour it like every other smile he threw your way. It was scraps for a mangy old dog, but you’d take whatever you could get. “Was just worried about you. You looked like you took a few hits tonight.” His eyes dropped and you angled your body away from the door so he couldn’t see just how ruined the shirt was. Excess blood would definitely inspire more concern and questions, and you didn’t want to answer anything he asked.

“I’m fine. It’s just scratches. Nothing that won’t heal in a couple of days.” You mustered your most convincing smile, but it didn’t fool him, and he frowned.

“Forgive me if I’m wrong, but you were wearing the grey Fleetwood shirt earlier. Now it’s red. Let me in, Y/N. You need help.”

“No, I don’t, I really don’t, just… please, Dean, go away,” you begged, not meeting his eyes. “It’s just scratches.”

“You really think that chain is gonna keep me out if I really want in?” he asked, and you swallowed nervously. “You should know I don’t give a shit about room deposits, Y/N. You’re hurt. Let me in so I can check you over.”

You gritted your teeth as he pushed against the door. “It’s just a scratch,” you insisted.

Dean gave you a look that called you on your bullshit, and your fingers loosened on the door. “You are so full of shit. And I’m the expert on that. Let me in.” You shook your head, moving to push the door closed, but Dean’s foot snuck in before you could shut it, holding it open. “Y/N -”

“I don’t want you to see!” you shrieked, putting all your weight against the door. The action strained your injuries and you cried out, tears spilling down your cheeks and your strength waning. In a second, Dean snapped the chain and got into the room, just in time to catch you as you fell back. “Let go of me,” you wailed, making no move to fight him off. Dean ignored you, hauling you into his arms and picking you up off of the floor, just as Sam appeared in the doorway.

“Dean, what the hell?” he demanded, and the older Winchester looked over at him with a glare.

“She’s being stubborn. Shut the door, Sammy, I’m gonna make sure she’s okay.” Sam nodded at Dean’s instruction and turned away, leaving you and his brother alone. “You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?” Dean growled, settling you gently on the bed. You sobbed, nodding in agreement. “Let me look,” he insisted, but your hands batted his away.

“Please, Dean, I don’t want you to -” you choked out, shaking your head, even as fresh red appeared on your shirt. “I’m not… I can’t… please…”

Dean stood straight, looking down at you in exasperation. “Is this because you think you’re fat?” His expression was deadly serious, and you froze in a heap on the bed, half propped up on your elbows, legs shaking, heart pounded and ice in your veins. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

“If you’re gonna start making fun -” you started, pushing yourself up, intending to run and lock yourself in the bathroom; injuries be damned. Dean, however, wasn’t letting you go anywhere, one large hand pushing your least wounded shoulder backwards, until you lost your balance and fell down onto the mattress.

“I’m not making fun of anything,” he replied, green eyes focused on yours. “If this is what that’s about, it’s not fucking worth dying over, Y/N.”

You blanched a little. “I’m not gonna die. I’m not even bleeding enough to feel dizzy, I just, I don’t…” You paused, looking up at him. “I’m not pretty to look at, Dean.” His face softened at your plaintive tone. “I’m not built out of muscle like you two. I fumble around this hunting thing, we both know that.” Dean opened his mouth to argue, but you shook your head to stop him. “Don’t tell me I’m a kickass hunter or any of that usual shit you spout. I know it’s lies, okay? I know I’m too soft, too clumsy, I know I’ve got rolls and lump and I’m short, I’ve got stubby legs, my boobs don’t do anything they’re told unless they’re in a sports bra that cuts off oxygen -” It was like the floodgates had opened, and you couldn’t even stop yourself from crying. Dean had heard all of these comments before, in snippets, in passing remarks you’d made yourself, but now it was like a giant river of crazy going his way.

It wouldn’t be surprising if he turned tail and ran, leaving you to your own wounds.

“- I can’t run a hundred metres, and my aim with a shotgun is appalling. My hair is always a mess, I hide everything under baggy clothes because the thought of wearing a pair of skinny jeans makes me want to die. My thighs are like tree trunks, my nose is too squishy, I’ve got an ass the size of Washington State -”

“Okay, okay,” Dean interrupted, letting go of your shoulder, and you waited, patiently, for him to run the mile you expected of him. “You can stop. I get it.” He looked at you with a serious expression. “You’re crazy, you know that? Listing all this shit that’s wrong with you…” Here it was. His face softened into a smile. “And you’re fucking wrong about every single bit.”

You nodded, closing your eyes. “You don’t have to stay, don’t feel like you have… wait, what?” His words caught up with you, and you frowned, your eyes snapping open to focus on his grinning face.

“You’re wrong about everything,” he repeated, reaching out to place a hand on your bloodied, tear-stained cheek. “For one, your ass isn’t the size of Washington State. It’s a nice ass, perfectly formed, and I quite enjoy staring at it. Always a good thing you take up the rear on a hunt, because otherwise I’d get distracted.”

The tilt of your head in confusion was accompanied by his amused chuckle, and he stood up, marching over to your duffel bag and hunting around for the medical kit you usually carried. He didn’t stop talking as he went and you watched him, utterly dumbfounded at his comments.

“Running is Sam’s thing. I can’t run. Have you seen me and stairs? Jeez, that spirit hunt in Colorado two weeks ago? Good thing Sam got the drop, because I needed a stairmaster or something.” He sat down on the bed, and opened the medical kit, pulling the sleeve of your shirt up to get at the worst gash on your upper arm, all the while not making eye contact. “You might not be all muscle, but I’ve got a dad-bod apparently. Only six pack I’ve seen recently was the six pack of Bud I stashed in the trunk on the way to Kansas.” You couldn’t stop the giggle that escaped you then, following it up with a hiss as Dean dabbed antiseptic onto your arm. “Sorry,” he apologised. “And you’re no clumsier than me or Sam. No less fit. We have spent half our lives eating diner food, drinking too much booze and sewing ourselves up with dental floss. Healthy, we ain’t.”

You watched him as he worked on cleaning your arm, the pain fading as he talked. “You were raised into this, Dean. You’re made of different stuff than me. I’m just a small town girl who fell into this life and didn’t leave.”

“And that makes you an idiot, just like us,” he pointed out, grinning. “So you’re not Kate Moss. Think she’d last five minutes on a hunt? I’ve seen you take down spirits and vampires and men twice your size. That wolf earlier? Sam only got him because he was rolling around on the floor clutching his manhood where you’d jammed your knee in it.” You swelled a little with pride. “So don’t tell me you’re not a badass hunter,” he continued. “And definitely don’t tell me you’re not a beautiful woman, because you’re just lying to me and yourself.”

His speech knocked the wind right out of you, and your jaw dropped, as Dean carried on cleaning your arm like he’d said he was going to get milk. He’d called you beautiful, and the way he’d said it made emotion well up in your throat. “Dean -” you started, but he cut you off.

“Don’t tell me what I know, Y/N,” he said, seriously. “You think I want you in this life? Watching you in danger goddamn kills me every time. But hell if you ain’t magnificent when you’re fighting. You’re just an ordinary woman standing up for what she thinks is right, and that’s stronger than  _ anyone _ born into the life.”

“Dean -”

“Stop interrupting me,” he growled, and you ducked your head. “I’m trying to tell you something… and it’s hard to get it out…” He sighed, pulling away from your injury, looking down at his own bloodied hands. “I’ve been in love with you since day one, so you can get that damn t-shirt off so I can fix you, right now.”

And there it was. Words you never thought you’d hear from Dean, from the man you’d pined over from afar for too long to count. Maybe that werewolf had actually killed you and you were in heaven. “What?”

“It’s been hard to hide it. Especially when you were so down, and I know you don’t see yourself the way I do. I see this beautiful, smart, sexy, downright terrifying woman every day, and knowing that you see yourself as the complete opposite? It fucking kills me, Y/N.” He cupped your face again. 

“I never… I never thought…” you faltered, unsure what to say. “You love me?”

Dean grinned nervously. “Would you mind returning the sentiment so I feel a little less like I’m about to be crushed please?”

You pushed yourself up off of the bed, using his arm for leverage to throw yourself into his lap, colliding the both of you together heavily, and it was only for Dean’s quick reflexes that you didn’t fall. He laughed as you smiled through happy tears, nodding.

“Of course I fucking return it, you dick!” you cried, framing his face with your hands. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I didn’t want you to think I was doing it to cheer you up,” he replied, pressing his nose against yours. “But if being this down gets you killed, I’ll never forgive myself for not telling you. Sam’s been putting his foot up my ass for years to tell you the truth.”

“You’re an idiot,” you whispered, leaning into him.

Dean chuckled. “That makes two of us. Now, will you please take off that shirt so I can sew you up? I know it’s bad.”

You nodded, rolling back to the bed and lifting your shirt up slowly, not protesting when Dean helped you pull it over your head. A hiss left your lips as you strained to get it off, and as it revealed the injuries underneath, Dean swore softly, rushing to get the shirt off of you at a quicker speed. He snatched it from your hands, throwing it across the room out of his sight.

Laying back, you shivered as the cool air hit your blood-slicked skin, and the urge to cover yourself became too great to ignore. Bringing your hands up, you moved to shield your body from his view, but he was quicker than you, and stopped the movement of your fists.

“I don’t give a fuck if you think you’re fat right now, Y/N, these wounds are bad.” His tone brokered no room for argument, but you still felt subconscious as hell, no matter how much he insisted it didn’t matter. There was no changing such an ingrained attitude in five seconds, even with a declaration of love. “Shit, baby, these are gonna have to be stitched.”

He moved away, and you swallowed hard, focusing everything in you on the ceiling, even as you felt the bed dip at his return.

“This is gonna sting,” he warned, and you nodded, gritting your teeth, hearing the lid pop off of whatever he’d grabbed. Cool liquid splashed over your skin, bringing with it a harsh sting that made your eyes water and your throat constrict around a cry of pain. Dean didn’t stop, using what you now assumed by the smell was whiskey, to flush out the gashes across your belly.

“Dean, stop, it hurts!” you cried, fists clenching in the soaked sheets at your sides. He adhered to the plea, twisting the cap back on the bottle and placing it in your hand. You were sobbing now, pain making your entire body twitch.

“Drink some,” he ordered, and you lifted the bottle with shaking fingers, managing to get the top off and lifting yourself so you could sip at the strong liquid. It burned as it went down, and you drank a few sips until you couldn’t stand the taste anymore. “You never were a whiskey girl,” Dean commented, smiling softly. “Just hold still, sweetheart. This is gonna hurt, but I’ll do it as quickly as possible.”

He wasn’t lying. You’d never had to have a wound stitched up like this before and it hurt like nothing you’d experienced. Dean was as gentle as he could but there was no avoiding some of the pain he was causing. With every hiss and whimper you gave, he’d apologise uselessly, and you wished you could tell him it was okay but instead, you kept your focus on the ceiling, feeling tears run from the corners of your eyes and down to tickle the top of your ears.

It seemed to take forever, but finally, Dean snipped off the end of the thread, sitting back and packing everything away. You sniffed, not moving for a moment until his hand landed on yours, the calloused pad of his thumb rubbing over your knuckles softly.

“It’s done,” he whispered, and you nodded in response, letting him tug you up into a seated position. “If you stand up, I can clean it properly and wrap some gauze around it.”

“Wouldn’t it be better if I showered first?” you asked, finally locking your eyes on his. “Or shouldn’t I get it wet?”

“Probably not a good idea to get it wet.” He paused, looking over at the kitchenette that came with every one of these crappy motels. Standing from the bed, he moved over to the cupboards, rooting through them and their adjacent drawers, until he came up with his prize. “But this would do the trick,” he announced, holding the box of cellophane wrap out for you to see. “We’ll just cover you in this and medical tape, and that should keep it dry.”

You nodded, biting your lip to hide your grimace of pain as you gingerly pulled yourself off of the bed. Dean returned to your side, remaining gentle as he cleaned around the wound and applied antiseptic cream, before wrapping your midriff in the gauze and finally covering it with the plastic. Every second you stood there, fighting the urge to cover yourself, feeling like a roll of dough squished into coverings too small for your skin.

“How does that feel?” he asked, looking up at you as he finished applying sticky medical tape to hold everything in place.

“I feel like a loaf of bread,” you deadpanned, wiping at your eyes. “A really dirty loaf of bread.”

Dean smiled, standing straight, reaching up to cup your cheek delicately. “You don’t look like a loaf of bread,” he said, and you opened your mouth to argue, to put yourself down more, but for a change, the look in Dean’s eyes held your tongue. “Get in the shower. Leave the door open, just in case. I’ll find you some clean clothes and order in some food.”

Your brow drew together as you stared up at him, feeling a slight strain in your eyes at having to focus on him so closely. “Why are you doing this?” you asked, the rasp in your voice making the emotion stick in your throat. “I mean, I know… what you said before and everything but…”

“I’ve stood back and just let this all hang between us for too long,” he interrupted, stroking his thumb over your cheek. “Now, shut up and deal with it.”

The smile that tugged at your lips wasn’t going to be stopped, but you still didn’t move, almost hypnotised by the way he pressed against you softly, mindful of your wounds. In slow-motion, like you were watching a soppy romance flick, Dean’s lips got closer and closer, and you felt a soft sigh leave your lips in the split second before he was kissing you.

Dean Winchester’s lips felt nothing like you’d expected them too. They were plump and warm, slightly moist but not in a disgusting way. His three days of stubble scraped against your top lip and chin where he smooshed against you, but it was pleasant rather than annoying. You moaned into him, finally breaking away when your chest started to hurt from lack of oxygen.

“Without sounding too much like a Katherine Heigl movie; I should have done that a long time ago,” he chuckled, and you smiled, unable to resist the urge to rub the tip of your nose against his. He didn’t protest; rather, his smile widened and his eyes crinkled up at the corners with it. “Shower, now.”

It was a reluctant parting, but you felt the grime and blood on your skin more than ever. You turned away from him, heading into the bathroom, not realising until you got there that you’d just pranced across the room in just your bra and hadn’t felt a second of self-doubt.

That, however, did not stop it roaring straight back as soon as you noticed.

Cloud nine faded a little as you stripped and threw your clothes into the corner, wondering if any of them were salvageable amongst the blood. You climbed into the slightly yellowed motel bathtub, switching the shower on and dodging the spray until it was warm enough to stand under. Through the open door, you heard Dean moving around, and heard him speaking to Sam about food.

It didn’t take long for your attention to wander, and you grabbed the soap, starting the process of lathering up and clearing everything away, mindful of the plastic wrapped around your tummy to cover the gauze. The soap stung a little as you washed your arms, and you found a few bruises you hadn’t been aware of before. Twenty minutes later, and you were climbing out of the tub, wrapping yourself in a towel, just as Dean’s arm came through the door to knock.

“I’m covered,” you said, voice a little more than a whisper as he followed his arm into the room. “And clean, thank god.” Your feet shuffled on the possibly-beige mat under your feet, and Dean smiled, reaching out to tuck a wet strand of hair behind your ear. You ducked your eyes, still uncomfortable and feeling more than a little exposed in the towel that only just managed to wrap around you.

“Come on. Sam brought over some food from the diner.”

“Are you staying here?” you asked, frowning. “You don’t have to, I mean -”

“Didn’t we cover this already?” Dean questioned, but his tone was light. “Ease up on the anxiety, sweetheart - I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

Your replied “okay” was quiet, and you felt both bashful and irritated at the same time. Whilst it was nice that your fantasy was a little more grounded in reality than you thought, you were still waiting for the other shoe to drop. Obediently, you followed Dean back into the main room as he picked up a pile of clothes and handed them to you. He didn’t object at your retreat back into the bathroom to dress, and didn’t say anything about it as you re-emerged a few moments later.

“Burgers good?” he asked, and you nodded, accepting the container and painkillers he held out to you, before climbing onto the freshly made bed. Obviously while you had been showering, he’d made sure to clear off all the gross sheets and put fresh ones on.

Settling yourself down, you opened the takeaway container, looking over as the bed dipped and Dean sat down next to you, TV remote in hand, his body closer to yours than you’d been expecting. You bristled with nerves, but didn’t move, giving him a nervous smile and tearing your eyes away as he turned the television on.

“Car chases,” he grinned, nudging you gently with his shoulder. “Good stuff.”

You didn’t respond, but you still smiled, digging into your food.

An hour later, there was a pile of takeaway containers on the floor, and you’d moved on the bed until you were tucked into the crook of Dean’s shoulder, one arm draped around his stomach as both of you watched reality crime programs. He made the odd comment here and there, with you mostly staying quiet, his fingers alternating between stroking over the unmarked skin of your shoulder and playing with your hair. 

It was honestly the best time you’d had in awhile.

At the shows came to an end, and the channel announcer rattled off the schedule of crap action movies for the evening, you looked up at Dean, smiling softly. “You don’t have to stay, y’know. I’m about ready for bed anyway.”

He blinked down at you, a frown slowly forming on his expression. “Who says I want to leave?” He shifted, pushing you off and for a split second, you were convinced you’d just managed to push him away. Then he wiggled down the bed in a less-than-graceful move, and grinned as he came face-to-face with you. “You’re an idiot sometimes, you know that?”

You stuck your tongue out petulantly. “Takes one to know one.”

Dean chuckled, his hand sliding over your hip to pull you a little closer. “I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered, pressing his lips to yours and you sighed into the touch, closing your eyes to savour every second of the kiss. It was deeper and longer than the one you’d shared earlier, and it left your toes curling when he pulled away. “How’s the stomach feeling?”

“Painkillers kicked in,” you replied quietly, a yawn breaking your words up. “But I’m pretty tired.” His thumb dipped under the hem of your shirt, brushing against the bare skin below your bandage, and you tensed. Dean stopped, sighing heavily.

“I’m making you uncomfortable,” he said, starting to pull away. Your hand landed on top of his before he could remove it, and you shook your head.

“I’ll deal with it. I’m just… not used to being touched like that. My feelings on my own body aren’t gonna disappear overnight.” You looked away from him. “It’s likely they never will.”

Dean smiled, pulling his hand up and lacing his fingers through yours. “Well, I guess I’ll just have to remind you every day that you’re goddamn beautiful and sexy as hell.” You blushed, looking down. “Now, I’m worried about poppin’ those stitches, so I’m not gonna be rockin’ your world tonight.” He grinned as you looked up in bewilderment. “Don’t be too disappointed. I’m still gonna help you relax, if that’s okay with you?”

The breathy “yes” you gave as a reply was enough for his fingers to leave yours, sliding back up underneath your shirt to graze the edge of the bandage across your belly, and your breath caught in your throat.

“Just say if you want me to stop,” he purred, nuzzling his face into yours before capturing your lips, and you felt the buzz of arousal join the numbness of the painkillers, making you pliant. Your hips rolled backwards so your ass was against the mattress, and Dean’s fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your pants, teasing at the sensitive skin beneath.

He broke the kiss then, for only a second, allowing you precious time to suck in a lungful of oxygen before he was on you again. You couldn’t help yourself, bringing your fingers up to twist them through his short hair, your pelvis thrusting towards him as his hand dug deeper, the tip of his index finger grazing over your clit and making your entire body jerk.

“Hmmm, someone’s already a little wet,” Dean muttered, smiling as he pulled back to look into your lidded, lust-filled eyes. You could only smile dopily at him, before your mouth formed a little “o” of pleasure at his fingers twisting around your clit. The cocky smirk on his face disappeared out of view as he buried his face in your neck, licking and sucking at the juncture of your throat until you were whimpering loudly for him. His fingers stroked over your slick flesh, his wrist stretching your jeans away from your tummy as he sought to gain more purchase on you.

“Dean,” you whined, tugging gently at his hair and making him growl against your neck. He pulled back, looking up at you, concentrating on your expression as his fingers pushed you higher and higher towards ecstasy.

“Don’t hold on, baby. Just let go,” he urged. “I got you.”

You nodded, letting your eyes fall closed as you ignored the slight twinge of pain that remained from your injuries, focusing on the swell of pure bliss that Dean created with his touch. It pounded and curled in your belly, until you felt that familiar crest of the wave about to break. Somehow, Dean knew, pressed his fingers into you harder, faster, and you were lost, dropping into oblivion with his name lingering on your lips.

Seconds ticked by, and Dean withdrew his hand from your pants, not protesting when you curled your body into his, sleepiness compounded by your orgasm. He smiled, kissing your lips briefly, before holding you against him, his lips grazing your temple.

“Gonna show you every day, sweetheart. Even if you never believe me.”


End file.
